“Cyrus!” The sharp, clear voice was feminine and all too familiar. He looked up and saw figures running toward him across the sand, and he felt the tide come in again and wash over him. There was a strong whinny of a horse above him, and he dimly realized it was Windrider, standing above him with others. He blinked, and recognized Cattrine, who was now by his side, her face close to his. “Are you all right?”
“I’m still alive,” Cyrus managed to get out. “Which is more than I can say for …” he almost choked on his words, “… some.”
“What happened?” Cattrine asked. There were others, he could hear them, talking. “We saw the bridge come down, and then Windrider went mad, stamping and snorting. He didn’t stop until just a moment ago, when he went charging off down the shore and led us to you.”
“Alaric came,” Cyrus said. “My Guildmaster. He …” Cyrus felt a lump in his throat and swallowed. “He destroyed the bridge, drowned the scourge. And he …” Cyrus let his voice trail off.
Cattrine’s eyes flickered in the light of a torch someone was carrying nearby. “Oh, Cyrus … I’m so sorry.”
“He saved us,” Cyrus said numbly, pushing himself to sit upright. “He saved us all.”
There was noise at the base of the bridge, commotion and shouting, and Cyrus grasped Windrider’s reins, which dangled before him, and without warning the horse pulled him to standing then snorted at him. “Okay, then,” Cyrus said.
“Where is he?” came the voice from the bridge. “Has anyone seen Cyrus?”
“I’m over here!” Cyrus called and felt his feet sink into the sand with every step forward. He kept his hand on Windrider’s reins. “I’m here.”
There were torches atop the bridge, lighting the edges of it as it sloped toward the sands at the end where it met the ground. They followed off in a procession. The twilight turned dark now, night having fallen. He felt Cattrine next to him rather than saw her, sensed her presence as he moved through the night, and the water that drenched his underclothes sloshed in his boots and on his person as he walked. The water was beginning to cool on him, to chill him, like the winter at Enrant Monge.
The torches grew closer, and Cyrus could see the faces lit by them now-Terian, Longwell, Odellan. Martaina was there as well, and he saw the relief pass over her face as he appeared to them. Curatio broke into a smile at Cyrus’s appearance. Cyrus blinked in surprise at the sight of Ryin Ayend, who stood next to J’anda. “Ryin,” he said in acknowledgment.
“Cyrus,” Terian said, standing apart from the others. He had broken off from them and stood at an angle to the side. Cyrus stared closer at him, saw the faint red glow in the torchlight and felt a whisper of menace through him as he drew Praelior, causing the others to halt their advance toward him.
Cyrus walked slowly toward Terian, angling himself away from the others. “Now, Terian?”
“No,” Terian said, choked, as he raised his blade and pointed it at Cyrus. “Not now. I did what you asked. I fought to the end. Now … I’m not going back with you. Not to Sanctuary. Not so you can put me on trial like some kind of circus or example. I’m leaving.”
“Terian,” Curatio said menacingly, “you tried to murder a fellow officer. If you think you can simply walk away from that-”
“No,” Cyrus said and pointed Praelior at the dark knight’s shade, his blue face almost fading into the background of the jungle behind him. “He can go.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission,” Terian snapped.
“I wasn’t giving permission,” Cyrus said slowly. “I was releasing you from the charge of attempting to murder me. Go on. Be about your business, then; we have no more between us now to deal with, it’s all settled on my end.”
Terian gave him a slow, hard nod. “Not on mine. This isn’t over between us. Not yet.”
Cyrus gave a long sigh. “Fine. But at least do me the courtesy of not coming at me like a sidewinder next time. Try it head-on, like a man. I’ll give you the fight you’re looking for.”
Terian said nothing but started to back away, up the slope of the beach, until he finally turned, sheathed his sword and entered the jungle. Cyrus watched him go until he disappeared and felt a familiar chill he could not define as he watched the darkness of the space between the trees. He wondered if Terian had turned around, was watching him, was giving him that eerie feeling.
“Cyrus,” Ryin said, jarring the warrior out of his reflection.
“Ryin,” Cyrus said. “You brought Alaric here?”
“Aye,” the druid said. “When we left, the dark elves were hitting Sanctuary’s walls with a strong attack, trying desperately to break through.”
“Gods,” Curatio said, sagging. “First Alaric, now this. How many of the enemy?”
“At least a hundred thousand,” Ryin said. “And no way for us to get back behind the walls. And no way to dislodge an army of that size, with only your thousand or so remaining.”
Cyrus’s head spun at the thought.
“Infantry, mostly,” Ryin said. “Some trolls, for variety. They’ve been launching staggered attacks at us, but they were warming up for the finale when we left two days ago. They kept coming, aiming for the gate, trying to break it down.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“A hundred thousand,” J’anda said in quiet awe. “We would need an army of our own of at least similar size in order to break them loose from around the wall … at least as many …”
Cyrus felt his jaw set in determination, felt the fury flood his veins.
There were hushed voices, raising discussion around him, unsure, starting to argue.
“Enough,” he said, and they ceased, every head turning toward him. “We have no time for argument.”
“Cyrus,” Odellan said, “I appreciate your desire for harmony at this moment of all moments, but this is in serious need of discussion. Sanctuary under siege from such a superior army is cause for great concern. With the portal closed, it seems unlikely we’ll be able to relieve our beleaguered comrades; to get back inside-”
“Sure we will,” Cyrus said, and began to walk past them all, his hands still on Windrider’s reins, toward the bridge.
“Uh, Cyrus?” Longwell said, speaking up. “Maybe you didn’t hear Ryin. There are a hundred thousand foot infantry surrounding them, and we can’t get back inside by teleportation.”
“I heard,” Cyrus said. “I don’t want to get back inside by teleportation. I want to ride through the front gate.”
Curatio coughed, but still they all followed him, even as he picked up speed and curved around the bottom of the bridge, beginning to run. He stepped up onto the arc of it, the bottom, and ran up the slope of it ten feet, using the height to give him a higher perspective.
“Cyrus,” Curatio said, coughing politely. “A hundred thousand dark elven warriors stand between us and the front gate of Sanctuary, and with the portal shut down, about six months’ ride for us, assuming we wanted to walk right up to their army of a hundred thousand and try to kill them with our thousand.”
Cyrus’s eyes surveyed the scene before him. “We don’t have an army of a thousand, Curatio. And it doesn’t matter how many
“I don’t understand,” Cattrine said, from just behind him. “You’re outmatched, yes? A hundred thousand soldiers would seem to be a tremendous disadvantage to run up against.”
“If I were going to stand and fight them by myself, you are correct,” Cyrus said. “But I don’t mean to stand toe to toe with them; and I don’t mean to give them an even chance.” He looked at the officers before him,
